"Some prize Orpingtons, did I understand?" says he, in a soft, purry voice. "I don't recall having——" Then he gets a good look at Old Hickory, and his tone changes sudden. "What!" he snaps. "You, Ellins? How did you get in here?"

"With those fool chickens," says the boss.

"But—but I didn't know," goes on Mr. Nash, "that you were interested in that sort of thing."

"Glad to say I'm not," comes back Old Hickory. "Just a scheme of my brilliant-haired young friend here to smuggle me into the sacred presence. Great Zacharias, Nash! why don't you shut yourself in a steel vault, and have done with it?"

Gedney bites his upper lip, annoyed. "I find it necessary," says he, "to avoid interruptions. I presume, however, that you came on some errand of importance?"

"I did," says Old Hickory. "I want to get a renewal of that Manistee terminal lease."

Say, of all the scientific squirmin', Gedney Nash can put up the slickest specimen. First off he lets on not to know a thing about it. Well, perhaps it was true that International Utilities did control those wharves: he really couldn't say. And besides that matter would be left entirely to the discretion of——

"No, it won't," breaks in Old Hickory, shakin' a stubby forefinger at him. "It's between us, Nash. You know what those terminal privileges mean to us. We can't get on without them. And if you take 'em away, it's a fight to a finish—that's all!"

"Sorry, Ellins," says Mr. Nash, "but I can do nothing."

"Wait," says Old Hickory. "Did you know that we held a big block of your M., K. & T.'s? Well, we do. They happen to be first lien bonds too. And M., K. & T. defaulted on its last interest coupons. Entirely unnecessary, I know, but it throws the company open to a foreclosure petition. Want us to put it in?"

"H-m-m-m!" says Mr. Nash. "Er—won't you sit down?"

Now if it had been two common, everyday parties, debatin' which owned a yellow dog, they'd gone hoarse over it; but not these two plutes. Gedney Nash asks Old Hickory only three more questions before he turns to the wicker cages and begins admirin' the fancy poultry.

"Excellent specimens, excellent!" says he. "And in the pink of condition too. I have a few Orpingtons on my place; but—oh, by the way, Ellins, are these really intended for me?"

"With Torchy's compliments," says Old Hickory.

"By Jove!" says Gedney. "I—I'm greatly obliged—truly, I am. What plumage! What hackles! And—er—just leave that terminal lease, will you? I'll have it renewed and sent up. Would you mind too if I sent you out by the Broadway entrance?"

I didn't mind, for one, and I guess the boss didn't; for the last office we passes through was where the gray-haired gent camped watchful behind the brass gratin'.

"Well, wouldn't that crimp you?" I remarks, givin' him the passin' grin. "Our old friend Ananias, ain't it?"

And he never bats an eyelash.

But Gedney wa'n't in that class. Before closin' time up comes a secretary with the lease all signed. I was in the boss's room when it's delivered.

"Gee, Mr. Ellins!" says I. "You don't need any more mud baths, I guess."

All the rise that gets out of him is a flicker in the mouth corners. "Young man," says he, "whose idea was it, taking you off the gate?"

"Mr. Robert's," says I.

"I am glad to learn," says he, "that Robert had occasional lapses into sanity while I was away. What about your salary? Any ambitions in that direction?"

"I only want what I'm worth," says I.

"Oh, be reasonable, Son," says he. "We must save something for the stockholders, you know. Suppose we double what you're getting now? Will that do?"

And the grin I carries out is that broad I has to go sideways through the door.



CHAPTER V

SHOWING GILKEY THE WAY

I got to say this about Son-in-Law Ferdie: He's a help! Not constant, you know; for there's times when it seems like his whole scheme of usefulness was in providin' something to hang a pair of shell-rimmed glasses on, and givin' Marjorie Ellins the right to change her name. But outside of that, and furnishin' a comic relief to the rest of the fam'ly, blamed if he don't come in real handy now and then.

Last Friday was a week, for a sample. I meets up with him as he's driftin' aimless through the arcade, sort of caromin' round and round, bein' bumped by the elevator rushers and watched suspicious by the floor detective.

"What ho, Ferdie!" I sings out, grabbin' him by the elbow and swingin' him out of the line of traffic. "This ain't no place to practice the maxixe."

"I—I beg—oh, it's you, Torchy, is it?" says he, sighin' relieved. "Where do I go to send a telegram?"

"Why," says I, "you might try the barber shop and file it with the brush boy, or you could wish it on the candy-counter queen over there and see what would happen; but the simple way would be to step around to the W. U. T. window, by the north exit, and shove it at Gladys."

"Ah, thanks," says he, "North exit, did you say? Let's see, that is—er——"

"'Bout face!" says I, takin' him in tow. "Now guide right! Hep, hep, hep—parade rest—here you are! And here's the blank you write it on. Now go to it!"

"I—er—but I'm not quite sure," protests Ferdie, peelin' off one of his chamois gloves, "I'm not quite sure of just what I ought to say."

"That bein' the case," says I, "it's lucky you ran into me, ain't it? Now what's the argument?"

Course it was a harrowin' crisis. Him and Marjorie had got an invite some ten days ago to spend the week-end at a swell country house over on Long Island. They'd hemmed and hawed, and fin'lly ducked by sendin' word they was so sorry, but they was expectin' a young gent as guest about then. The answer they got back was, "Bring him along, for the love of Mike!" or words to that effect. Then they'd debated the question some more. Meanwhile the young gent had canceled his date, and the time has slipped by, and here it was almost Saturday, and nothin' doing in the reply line from them. Marjorie had thought of it while they was havin' lunch in town, and she'd chased Ferdie out to send a wire, without tellin' him what to say.

"And you want someone to make up your mind for you, eh?" says I. "All right. That's my long suit. Take this: 'Regret very much unable to accept your kind invitation'—which might mean anything, from a previous engagement to total paralysis."

"Ye-e-es," says Ferdie, hangin' his bamboo stick over his left arm and chewin' the penholder thoughtful, "but Marjorie'll be awfully disappointed. I think she really does want to go."

"Ah, squiffle!" says I. "She'll get over it. Whose joint is it, anyway?"

"Why," says he, "the Pulsifers', you know."

"Eh?" says I. "Not the Adam K.'s place, Cedarholm?"

Ferdie nods. And, say, it was like catchin' a chicken sandwich dropped out of a clear sky. The Pulsifers! Didn't I know who was there? I did! I'd had a bulletin from a very special and particular party, sayin' how she'd be there for a week, while Aunty was in the Berkshires. And up to this minute my chances of gettin' inside Cedarholm gates had been null and void, or even worse. But now—say, I wanted to be real kind to Ferdie!

"One or two old friends of Marjorie's are to be there," he goes on dreamy.

"They are?" says I. "Then that's diff'rent. You got to go, of course."

"But—but," says he, "only a moment ago you——"

"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "You don't want Marjorie grumpin' around for the next week, do you, wishin' she'd gone, and layin' it all to you?"

Ferdie blinks a couple of times as the picture forms on the screen. "That's so," says he. "She would."

"Then gimme that blank," says I. "Now here, how's this, 'Have at last arranged things so we can come. Charmed to accept'? Eh?"

"But—but there's Baby's milk," objects Ferdie. "Marjorie always watches the nurse sterilize it, you know."

"Do up a gallon before you leave," says I.

"It's such a puzzling place to get to, though," says Ferdie. "I'm sure we'd never get on the right train."

"Whadye mean, train," says I. "Ah, show some class! Go in your limousine."

"So we could," says Ferdie. "But then, you know, they'll be expectin' us to bring an extra young man."

"They needn't be heartbroken over that," says I. "You didn't say who he was, did you?"

"Why, no," says Ferdie; "but——"

"Since you press me so hard," says I, "I'll sub for him. Guess you need me to get you there, anyway."

"By Jove!" says Ferdie, as the proposition percolates through the hominy. "I wonder if——"

"Never waste time wonderin'," says I. "Take a chance. Here, sign your name to that; then we'll go hunt up Marjorie and tell her the glad news."

Ferdie was still in a daze when we found the other three-quarters of the sketch, and Marjorie was some set back herself when I springs the scheme. But she's a good sport, Marjorie is, and if she was hooked up to a live one she'd travel just as lively as the next heavyweight.

"Oh, let's!" says she, clappin' her hands. "You know we haven't been away from home overnight for an age. And Edna Pulsifer's such a dear, even if her father is a grouchy old thing. We'll take Torchy along too. What do you say, Ferdie?"

Foolish question! Ferdie was still dazed. And anyhow she had said it herself.

So that's how it happens I'm one of the chosen few to be landed under the Cedarholm porte-cochere that Saturday afternoon. Course the Pulsifers ain't reg'lar old fam'ly people, like Ferdie's folks. They date back to about the last Broadway horse-car period, I understand, when old Adam K. begun to ship his Cherryola dope in thousand-case lots. Now, you know, it's all handled for him by the drug trust, and he only sits by the safety-vault door watchin' the profits roll in. But with his name still on every label you could hardly expect the Pulsifers to qualify for Mrs. Astor's list.

Seems Edna went to the same boardin' school as Marjorie and Vee, though, and neither of 'em ever thinks of throwin' Cherryola at her. And as far as an establishment goes, Cedarholm is the real thing. Gave me quite some thrill to watch two footmen in silver and baby blue pryin' Marjorie out of the limousine.

"Gee!" thinks I, glancin' around at the deep verandas, the swing seats, and the cozy corner nooks. "If Vee and I can't get together for a few chatty words among all this, then I'm a punk plottist!"

These country house joints are so calm and peaceful too! It's a wonder anybody could work up a case of nerves, havin' this for a steady thing. But Edna and Mrs. Pulsifer acted sort of restless and jumpy. She's a tall, thin, hollow-eyed dame, Mrs. Pulsifer is, with gray hair and a smooth, easy voice. Miss Edna must take more after her Pa; for she's filled out better, and while she ain't what you'd call mug-mapped, she has one of these low-bridge noses and a lot of oily, dark red hair that she does in a weird fashion of her own with a side part. Seems shy and bashful too, except when she snuggles up on the lee side of Marjorie and trails off with her.

The particular party I was strainin' my eyesight for ain't in evidence, though, and all the hint I gets of her bein' there was hearin' a ripply laugh at the far end of the hallway when she and Marjorie go to a fond clinch. That was some comfort, though,—she was in the house!

As I couldn't very well go scoutin' around whistlin' for her to come out, I does the next best thing. After bein' shown my room I drifts downstairs and out on the lawn where I'd be some conspicuous. Course I wa'n't suggestin' anything, but if somebody should happen to see me and judge that I was lonesome, they might wander out that way too. Sure enough somebody did,—Ferdie.

"I thought you had to take a nap before dinner," says I, maybe not so cordial.

"Bother!" says he. "There's no such thing as that possible with those three girls chattering away in the next room."

"Well, they ain't been together for some time, I expect," says I.

"It's worse than usual," says Ferdie. "A man in the case, you might know."

"Eh?" says I, prickin' up my ears. "Whose man?"

"Oh, Edna Pulsifer's absurd ditch digger," says Ferdie. "He's a young engineer, you know, that she's been interested in for a couple of years. Her father put a stop to it once; kept her in Munich for ten months—and that's a perfectly deadly place out of season, you know. But it doesn't seem to have done much good."

I grins. Surprisin' how cheerful I could be so long as it was a case of Miss Pulsifer's young man. I pumps the whole tale out of Ferdie,—how this Mr. Bert Gilkey—cute name too—had been writin' her letters all the time from out West, how he'd been seized with a sudden fit, wired on that he must see her once more, and had rushed East. Then how Pa Pulsifer had caught 'em lalligaggin' out by the hedge, had talked real rough to Gilkey, and ordered him never to muddy his front doormat again.

"And now," goes on Ferdie, "he sends word to Edna that he means to try it once more, no matter what happens, and everyone is all stirred up."

"So that accounts for the nervous motions, eh?" says I. "What does Pa Pulsifer have to say to this defi?"

"Goodness!" says Ferdie, shudderin'. "He doesn't know. No one dares tell him a word. If he found out—well, it would be awful!"

"Huh!" says I. "One of these fam'ly ringmasters, is he?"

That was it, and from Ferdie's description I gathered that old Adam K. was a reg'lar domestic tornado, once he got started. Maybe you know the brand? And it seems Pa Pulsifer was the limit. So long as things went his way he was a prince,—right there with the jolly haw-haw, fond of callin' wifey pet names before strangers, and posin' as an easy mark,—but let anybody try to pull off any programme that didn't jibe with his, and black clouds rolled up sudden in the West.

"I do hope," goes on Ferdie, "that nothing of that sort occurs while we are here."

So did I, for more reasons than one. What I wanted was peace, and plenty of it, with Vee more or less disengaged.

Nothin' could have been more promisin' either than the openin' of that first dinner party. Pa Pulsifer had showed up about six o'clock from the Country Club, with his rugged, hand-hewed face tinted up cheery. Some of it was sunburn, and some of it was rye, I expect, but he was glad to see all of us. He patted Marjorie on the cheek, pinched Vee by the ear, and slapped Ferdie on the back so hearty he near knocked the breath out of him. So far as our genial host could make it, it was a gay and festive scene. Best of all too, I'd been put next to Vee, and I was just workin' up to exchangin' a hand squeeze under the tablecloth when, right in the middle of one of Pa Pulsifer's best stories, there floats in through the open windows a crash that makes everybody sit up. It sounds like breakin' glass.

"Hah!" snorts Pulsifer, scowlin' out into the dark. "Now what in blazes was that?"

"I—I think it must have been something in the kitchen, Dear," says Mrs. Pulsifer. "Don't mind."

"But I do mind," says he. "In the first place, it wasn't in the kitchen at all, and if you'll all excuse me, I'll just see for myself."

Meanwhile Edna has turned pale, Marjorie has almost choked herself with a bread stick, and Ferdie has let his fork clatter to the floor. Ma Pulsifer is bitin' her lip; but she's right there with the soothin' words.

"Please, Dear," says she, "let me go. They want you to finish your story."

It was a happy touch, that last. Pa Pulsifer recovers his napkin, settles back in his chair, and goes on with the tale, while Mother slips out quiet. She comes back after a while, springs a nervous little laugh, and announces that it was only the glass in one of the hotbed frames.

"Some stupid person taking a short cut across the grounds, I suppose," says she.

Didn't sound very convincin' to me; but Pulsifer had got started on another boyhood anecdote, and he let it pass. I had a hunch, though, that Mrs. Pulsifer hadn't told all. I caught a glance between her and Edna, and some flashes between Edna and Vee, and I didn't need any sixth sense to feel that something was in the air.

No move was made, though, until after coffee had been served in the lib'ry and Pa Pulsifer was fittin' his fav'rite Harry Lauder record on the music machine.

First Mrs. Pulsifer slips out easy. Next Edna follows her, and after them Marjorie and Vee, havin' exchanged some whispered remarks, disappears too. Maybe it was my play to stick it out with Ferdie and the old boy, but I couldn't see any percentage in that, with Vee gone; so I wanders casual into the hall, butts around through the music room, follows a bright light at the rear, and am almost run down by Marjorie hurrying the other way sleuthy.

"Oh!" she squeals. "It's you, is it, Torchy? S-s-s-sh!"

"What you shushin' about?" says I.

"Oh, it's dreadful!" puffs Marjorie. "He—he's come!"

"That Gilkey guy?" says I.

"Ye-e-es," says she. "But—but how did you know?"

"I'm a seventh son, born with a cowlick," says I. "Was it Gilkey made his entrance through the cucumber frame?"

It was. Also he'd managed to cut himself in the ankles and right wrist. They had him in the kitchen, patchin' him up now, and they was all scared stiff for fear Pa Pulsifer would discover it before they could send him away.

"He'll be a nut if he don't," says I, "with all you women out here. Your game is to chase back and keep Pulsifer interested."

"I suppose you're right," says Marjorie. "Let's tell them."

So I follows into the big kitchen, where I finds the disabled Romeo propped up in a chair, with the whole push of 'em, includin' the fat cook, a couple of maids, and the butler, all tryin' to bandage him in diff'rent spots. He's a big, gawky-lookin' young gent, with a thick crop of pale hair and a solemn, serious look on his face, like he was one of the kind that took everything hard. As soon as Marjorie gives 'em my hint about goin' back to Father there's a gen'ral protest.

"Oh, I can't do it!" says Edna.

"He would notice at once how nervous I am," groans Mrs. Pulsifer.

"But you don't want him walking out here, do you?" demands Marjorie.

That settled 'em. They bunched together panicky and started back for the lib'ry.

"I'll stay and attend to the getaway," says I. "Nobody'll miss me."

"Thank you," says Gilkey; "but I'm not sure I wish to go away. I came to see Edna, you know."

"So I hear," says I. "Unique idea of yours too, rollin' in the hotbeds first."

"I—I was only trying to avoid meeting Mr. Pulsifer," says he; "exploring a bit, you see. I could hear voices in the dining-room; but I couldn't quite look in. There was a little shed out there, though, and by climbing on that I could get a view. That was how I lost my balance."

"Before you go callin' again," says I, "you ought to practice roostin' in the dark. Say, the old man must have thrown quite a scare into you last time."

"I am not afraid of Mr. Pulsifer, not a bit," says he.

"Well, well!" says I. "Think of that!"

"Anyway," says he, "I just wasn't goin' to be driven off that way. It—it isn't fair to either of us."

"Then it's a clear case with both of you, is it?" says I.

"We are engaged," says Gilkey, "and I don't care who knows it! It's not her money I'm after, either. We don't want a dollar from Mr. Pulsifer. We—we just want each other."

"Now you're talkin'!" says I; for, honest, the simple, slushy way he puts it across sort of wins me. And if that was how the case stood, with Edna longin' for him, and him yearnin' for Edna, why shouldn't they? If I'm any judge, Edna wouldn't find another right away who'd be so crazy about her, and anyone who could discover charms about Gilkey ought to be rewarded.

"See here!" says I. "Why not sail right in there, look Father between the eyes, and hand that line of dope out to him as straight as you gave it to me?"

He gawps at me a second, like I'd advised him to jump off the roof. "Do—do you think I ought?" says he.

I has to choke back a chuckle. Wanted my advice, did he? Well, say, I could give him a truckload of that!

"It depends," says I, "on how deep the yellow runs in you. Course it's all right for you to register this leader about not bein' scared of him. You may think you ain't, but you are all the same; and as long as you're in that state you're licked. That's the big trouble with most of us,—bein' limp in the spine. We're afraid of our jobs, afraid of what the neighbors will say, afraid of our stomachs, afraid of to-morrow. And here you are, prowlin' around on the outside, gettin' yourself messed up, and standin' to lose the one and only girl, all because an old stuff like Pulsifer says 'Boo!' at you and tells you to 'Scat!' Come on now, better let me lead you out and see you safe through the gate."

Course that was proddin' him a little rough, but I wanted to bring this thing to a head somehow. Made Gilkey squirm in his chair too. He begins rollin' his trousers down over the bandages and struggles into his coat.

"I suppose you're right," says he. "I—I think I will go in and see Mr. Pulsifer."

"Wha-a-at?" says I. "Now?"

"Why not?" says he, pushin' through the swing door.

"Hey!" I calls out, jumpin' after him. "Better let me break it to 'em in there."

"As you please," says Gilkey; "only let's have no delay."

So I skips across the hall and into the lib'ry, where they're all makin' a stab at bein' chatty and gay, with Pa Pulsifer in the center.

"Excuse me," says I, "but there's a young gent wants a few words with Mr. Pulsifer."

"What's that?" growls Adam K., glarin' about suspicious at the gaspy circle. "What young man?"

"Why," says I, "it's——" But then in he stalks.

"Oh, Herbert!" sobs Edna, makin' a wild grab at Marjorie for support.

As for Pa Pulsifer, his eyes get stary, the big vein in the middle of his forehead swells threatenin', and his bushy white eyebrows seem to bristle up.

"You!" he snorts. "How did you get in here, Sir?"

"Through the kitchen," says Gilkey. "I came to tell you that——"

"Stop!" roars Pulsifer, stampin' his foot and bunchin' his fists menacin'. "You can't tell me anything, not a word, you—you good-for-nothing young scoundrel! Haven't I warned you never to step foot in my house again? Didn't I tell you——"

Well, it's the usual irate parent stuff, only a little more wild and ranty than anything Belasco would put over. He abuses Gilkey up and down, threatens him with all kinds of things, from arrest to sudden death, and gets purple in the face doin' it. While Gilkey, he just stands there, takin' it calm and patient. Then, when there comes a lull, he remarks casual:

"If that is all, Sir, I wish to say to you that Edna and I are engaged, and that I intend to marry her early next week."

Wow! That's the cue for another explosion. It starts in just as fierce as the first; but it don't last so long, and towards the end Pa Pulsifer is talkin' husky and puffing hard.

"Go!" he winds up. "Get out of my house before I—I——"

"Oh, I say," breaks in Gilkey, "before you do what?"

"Throw you out!" bellows Pulsifer.

"Don't be absurd," says Gilkey, statin' it quiet and matter of fact. "You couldn't, you know. Besides, it isn't being done."

And it takes Pa Pulsifer a full minute before he can choke down his temper and get his wind again. Then he advances a step or so, points dramatic to the door, and gurgles throaty:

"Will—you—get—out?"

"No," says Gilkey. "I came to see Edna. I've had no dinner either, and I'd like a bite to eat."

Pulsifer stood there, not two feet from him, glarin' and puffin', and tryin' to decide what to do next; but it's no use. He'd made his grand roarin' lion play, which had always scared the tar out of his folks, and he'd responded to an encore. Yet here was this mild-eyed young gent with the pale hair and the square jaw not even wabbly in the knees from it.

"Come, Edna," says Gilkey, holdin' out a hand to her. "Let's go into the dining-room."

"But—but see here!" gasps Pa Pulsifer, makin' a final effort. "I—I——"

"Oh, hush up!" says Gilkey, turnin' away weary. "Come, Edna."

And Edna, she went; also Mrs. Pulsifer; likewise Vee and Marjorie. Trust women for knowin' when a bluff has been called. I expect they was wise, two or three minutes before either me or Gilkey, that Pa Pulsifer was beat. I stayed long enough to see him slump into an easy-chair, his under lip limp and a puzzled look in his eyes, like he was tryin' to figure out just what had hit him. And over by the fireplace is Ferdie, gawpin' at him foolish, and exercisin' his gears, I expect, on the same problem. Neither of them had said a word up to the time I left.

It took the women half an hour or more to feed Herbert up proper with all the nice things they could drag from the icebox. Then Mother Pulsifer patted him on the shoulder and shooed Edna and him through the French doors out on the veranda.

And what do you guess is Mrs. Pulsifer's openin' as we drifts back towards the scene of the late conflict?

"Why, Deary!" says she. "You haven't your cigars, have you? Here they are—and the matches. There! Now for the surprise. Our young people have decided—that is, Edna has—not to be married until two weeks from next Wednesday."

Does Pa Pulsifer rant any more rants? No. He gets his perfecto goin' nicely, blows a couple of smoke rings up towards the ceilin', and then remarks in sort of a weak growl:

"Hanged if I'll walk down a church aisle, Maria—hanged if I do!"

"I told them you wouldn't," says Ma Pulsifer, smoothin' the hair back over his ears soothin'; "so they've agreed on a simple home wedding, with only four bridesmaids."

"Huh!" says he. "It's lucky they did."

But, say, take it from me, his days of crackin' the whip around that joint are over. I'm beginnin' to believe too how some of that dope I fed to Herbert must have been straight goods. Vee insists on talkin' it over later, as we are camped in one of them swing seats out on the veranda.

"Wasn't he just splendid," says she: "standing up to Mr. Pulsifer that way, you know?"

"Some hero!" says I. "I wonder would he give me a few lessons, in case I should run across your Aunty some day?"

"Pooh!" says Vee. "Just as though I didn't go back to see if he'd gone and hear you putting him up to all that yourself! It was fine of you to do it too, Torchy."

"Right here, then!" says I. "Place the laurel wreath right here."

"Silly!" says she, givin' me a reprovin' pat. "Besides, that porch light is on."

Which was one of the reasons why I turned it off, and maybe accounts for our sudden break when Marjorie comes out to tell us it's near twelve o'clock.

Yes, indeed, though he may not look it, Ferdie is more or less of a help.



CHAPTER VI

WHEN SKEET HAD HIS DAY

There's one thing about bein' a private sec,—you stand somewhere on the social list. It may be down towards the foot among the discards; but you're in the running.

Not that I'm thinkin' of havin' a fam'ly crest worked on my shirt sleeves, or that I'm beginnin' to sympathize with the lower clawsses. Nothing like that! Only it does help, when Marjorie, the boss's married daughter, has planned some social doin's, to get an invite like a reg'lar guy.

What do you know too? It's dance! Not out at their country place, either. She'd dragged Ferdie into town for a couple of weeks, and they'd been stayin' at the Ellins's Fifth-ave. house, just visitin' and havin' a good time. That is, Marjorie had. Ferdie, he spends his days mopin' about the club and taggin' Mr. Robert.

"Better sneak off up to the Maison Maxixe with me," says I, "and brush up on your hesitation."

A look of deep disgust from Ferdie. "I'm not a dancing man, you know," says he.

"Both feet Methodists, eh?" says I.

Ferdie stares puzzled. "It's only that I'm sure I'd look absurd," says he.

"For once," says I, "you ain't so far from wrong. I expect you would."

Even that don't seem to please him, and he refuses peevish to trail along and watch me blow myself to a pair of dancin' pumps. Gee! but this society life runs into coin, don't it? I'd dropped into one of them swell booterers and was beefin' away at the clerk about havin' to pay six-fifty just for a pair of tango moccasins, when I hears someone on the bench back of me remark casual:

"Nine dollars? Very well. Send them up to my hotel. Here's my card."

And as there's somethin' familiar about the voice I takes a peek over my shoulder. But neither the braid-bound cutaway fittin' so snug at the waist, nor the snappy fall derby snuggled down over the lop ears, suggested any old friends. Not until he swings around and I gets a view of that nosy profile do I gasp any gasps.

"Sizzlin' Stepsisters!" says I. "If it ain't Skeet Keyser!"

"I—ah—I beg pardon?" says he, doin' it cold and haughty. Blamed if I don't think he meant to hand me the mistaken identity dope first off; but after another glance he thinks better of it. "Oh, yes," says he, sort of languid, "Torchy, isn't it?"

"Good guess, Skeet," says I, "seein' it's been all of two years since you used to shove me my coffee reg'lar at the——"

"Yes, yes," he breaks in hasty; "but—I—ah—I have an appointment. Glad to have seen you again."

"You act it," says I. And then, grabbin' him by the sleeve as he's backin' off, I whispers, "What's the disguise, Skeet?"

"Really, now!" he protests indignant.

"Oh, very well, very well!" says I. "But how should I know if someone has wished a life income on you? Congrats."

"Ah—er—thanks," says he. "I—I'll see you again—perhaps."

I loved the way he puts that last touch on too, and you could almost hear the sigh of relief as he fades down the aisle, leavin' me in one stockin' foot gawpin' after him.

No wonder I'm left open faced! Skeet Keyser in a tail coat, orderin' nine-dollar pumps sent to his hotel! Why, say, more'n once I've staked him to the price of a twenty-cent lodgin', and the only way I ever got any of it back was by tippin' him off to this vacancy on the coffee urn at the dairy lunch. Used to be copy boy on the Sunday, Skeet did; but that was 'way back. It didn't last long either; for he was just as punk a performer at that as he ever was at any of the other things he's tackled.

Gettin' the can tied to him was always Skeet's specialty. No mystery about that, either; for of all the useless specimens that ever grafted cigarettes he was about the limit. All he lacks is pep and bean and a few other trifles. You wouldn't exactly call him ornamental, either. No, him and that Apolloniris guy was quite diff'rent in their front and side elevation. Mostly arms and legs, Skeet is, and sort of swivel-jointed all over, with a back slope to his forehead and an under-cut chin. Nothin' reticent about his beak, though. It juts out from the middle of his face like the handle of a lovin' cup, and with his habit of stretchin' his neck forward he always seems to be followin' a scent, like one of these wienerwurst retrievers.

Brought up somewhere back of Jefferson Market, down in old Greenwich Village—if you know where that is. He's the only boy in a fam'ly of five, and I understand all the Keyser girls have done first rate; one bein' forelady in a big hair-dressin' joint, another married to the lieutenant of a hook and ladder company, and two well placed in service.

It was through bein' in on a little mix-up Skeet had with one of his sisters that I got so well posted on the fam'ly hist'ry. Must have been more'n a year ago, while Old Hickory was laid up at home there for a spell, and I was chasin' back and forth from the Corrugated to the Ellins house most every day. This time I hears a debate goin' on down at the area door, and the next thing I knows out comes Skeet, assisted active by the butler.

Seems that one of the new maids is his sister Maggie, and he'd just been callin' friendly in the hopes of sep'ratin' her from a dollar or so. It wa'n't Maggie's day for contributin' to the prodigal son fund, though, and Skeet was statin' his opinion of her reckless when the butler interfered. Come near losin' Maggie her job, that little scene did; but she promises faithful it sha'n't happen again, and was kept on.

"Blast her!" says Skeet to me later. "She's just as bad as the rest of 'em. They're all tightwads. Why, even the old lady runs me out now when I happen to be carryin' the banner and can't come across with my little old five of a Saturday night! I might starve in the streets for all they care. But I'll show 'em some day. You'll see!"

Hanged if it don't look like he'd turned the trick too; for, as I've hinted, Skeet is costumed like a lily of the field. But how he'd managed to do it is what gets me. And for two days after that I wasted valuable time tryin' to frame up just where in the gen'ral scheme of things a party like Skeet Keyser could connect with real money. After that I gave up the myst'ry and spent my spare minutes wonderin' if I could do this "One-two-three—hold!" business as successful in public as I could while them dancin' school fairies was drillin' it into my nut at one-fifty per throw.

That's right, grin! But if you're billed to mingle in the merry throng at a dance fest, you ain't goin' to trot out on the floor with any such antique act as last season's Boston dip, are you? Might as well spring the minuet. And specially when I'd had word that among others was to be a certain party. Uh-huh! You can play it both ways too that Vee would be up on the very latest, and if it was in me I meant to be right behind her.

Was I? Say, maybe if I wa'n't so blamed modest I could give you an idea of how Vee and I just naturally—but I can't do it. Besides, there's other matters; the grand jolt that come early in the evenin', for instance. It was after the second number, and I'd made a dash into the gents' dressin' room to see if my white tie showed any symptoms of ridin' up in the back, and I'd just strolled out into the entrance hall again, watchin' the push straggle in, when who should show up through the double doors but a tall, lanky young chap with lop ears and a nose one was bound to remember.

It's Skeet Keyser; Skeet in shiny, thin-soled pumps, a pleated dress shirt, black silk vest, and a top hat! He's bein' bowed in dignified by the same butler, and is passed on to—well, it's a funny world, ain't it? The maid on duty just inside the door happens to be Sister Maggie. She has the respectful bow all ready when she gets a full-face view.

"Aloysius!" says she, scared and husky.

I got to hand it to Skeet, though, that he bears up noble. All he does is to try to swallow his throat apple a couple of times, and then he stares at her stern and distant. Also Maggie makes a quick recovery.

"Gentlemen this way, Sir," says she, and waves Skeet into the dressin' room.

I wanted to follow him up and tip him off that there's one or two other reasons why this was the wrong house to put over any sporty bluff in; but as it was I'm overdue in another quarter. You see, Marjorie has been sittin' out on the side lines, as usual, and Vee has hinted how it would be nice and charitable of me to brace her for a spiel. I'd sort of been workin' myself up to the sacrifice, for you know Marjorie's some hefty partner for anybody not in trainin' to steer around a ballroom floor; but I'd figured out that the longer I put it off the worse it would be. So off I trails with my heels draggin' a little heavy.

"Why, thanks ever so much, Torchy," says she, "but I think I have a partner for the first four or five. After that, though——"

"Don't mention it," says I. "I mean, much obliged," and I backs off hasty before she can change her mind.

I had to kill time while Vee was dividin' a couple dances between two young shrimps; so I sidles into a corner where Ferdie sits behind his shell-rimmed glasses, lookin' bored and lonesome.

"Now don't you wish you'd gone and had your feet educated?" says I.

Ferdie yawns. "I think it quite sufficient," says he, "that one of us intends making an exhibition. Marjorie has been taking lessons, you know."

"So I hear," says I. "And it's all right if she don't tackle the maxixe. Hello! There it goes. Now you will see some stunts!"

Yep, we did! And among the first couples to sail out on the floor, if you'll believe it, was none other than Marjorie and our lop-eared young hero, Skeet Keyser.

"Oh, Gosh!" I groans. "Don't look, Ferdie!"

I meant well too; It was goin' to be bad enough to see a corn-fed young matron the size of Marjorie, who can spin the arrow well up to the hundred and eighty mark, monkey with them twisty evolutions; but to have her get let in for it with a roughneck ringer like Skeet—well, that was goin' to be a real tragedy. How he'd worked it, or what his excuse was for bein' here at all, was useless questions to ask then. What was comin' next was the thing to watch for.

As for Ferdie, he just sits there and blinks, followin' 'em through his spare panes. Course I could guess he wa'n't hep to any facts about Skeet. He was just a strange young gent to him, and it wa'n't up to me to add any details. So I settles back and watches 'em too.

And, say, you know how surprised you'd be to see any fat friend of yours buckle on a pair of ice skates and do the double grapevine up and down the rink? Well, that's the identical kind of jar I got when Marjorie begins that willowy bendy figure. It ain't any waddly caricature of it, either. It's the real thing. Honest, she's as light on her feet as if her middle name was Pavlowa!

At the same time it's lucky Skeet has arms, long enough to reach 'way round when he's steerin' her. If they'd been an inch or so shorter, he'd have had to break his clinch in some of them whirls, and then there'd been a big dent in the floor. He seems just built for the job, though. In and out, round and round, through the Parisienne, the flirtation, and all the other frills, he pilots her safe, bendin' and swayin' to the music, his number ten feet glidin' easy, and kind of a smirky, satisfied look on that sappy mug of his; while Marjorie, she simply lets herself go for all she's worth, her eyes sparklin', and the pink and white in her cheeks showin' clear and fresh.

Take it from me too, it's some swell exhibit! There was four or five other couples on at the same time, the girls all slender, wispy young things, that never split out a waist seam in their lives; but Marjorie and her partner had the gallery right with 'em. Two or three times durin' the dance they got scatterin' applause, and when the music fin'lly stops, leavin' 'em alone in the middle of the floor, they got a reg'lar big hand.

"I take it all back," says I to Ferdie. "That was real classy spielin'. Now wa'n't it?."

"No doubt," he grunts. "And I suppose I should be thankful that Marjorie didn't try to jump through a paper hoop. I trust, however, that this concludes the performance."

It did not! Next on the card was a onestep, with Marjorie and her unknown goin' to it like professionals; and if they omitted any fancy waves, you couldn't prove it by me. By this time too, Ferdie was sittin' up and takin' notice. "Oh, I say," says he, "isn't that the same fellow she danced with before?"

"You don't think a bunch of works like that could be twins, do you?" says I.

"But—but I'm sure I don't remember having met him, you know," says Ferdie, rubbin' his chin thoughtful.

"Then maybe you ain't," says I.

When they comes on for a third time, though, and prances through about as flossy a half-and-half as I've ever seen pulled at a private dance, Ferdie is some agitated in the mind. He ain't exactly green-eyed, but he's some disturbed. Yes, all of that!

"I—I think I'd best speak to Marjorie," says he.

"You'll have plenty of competition," says I. "Look!"

For the young chappies are crowdin' around her two deep, makin' dates for the next numbers. "Ferdie stares at the spectacle puzzled. He's a persistent messer, though.

"But really," he goes on, "I think I ought to meet that young fellow and find out who he is."

"Ah, bottle it up until afterwards!" says I. "Don't rock the skiff."

But there's a streak of mule in Ferdie a foot wide. "People will be asking me who he is!" he insists, "and if I don't know, what will they think? See, isn't that he, standing just over there?"

And then Mr. Robert has to drift along and complicate matters by joshin' brother-in-law a little. "Congratulations on your substitute, Ferdie," says he. "Where did he come from?"

Which brings a ruddy tint into Ferdie's ears. "Ask Marjorie," says he. "I'm sure he's an utter stranger to me."

"Wha-a-at?" says Mr. Robert, and when he's had the full situation mapped out for him blamed if he don't begin to take it serious too.

"To be sure, Ferdie," says he. "Everyone seems to think he must be a guest of yours; but as he isn't—well, it's quite time someone discovered. Let's go over and introduce ourselves."

And somehow that didn't listen good to me, either. Marjorie's done a lot of nice turns for me, and this looked like it was my play to lend a hand.

"With two or three more," says I, "you could form a perfectly good mob, couldn't you?"

Mr. Robert whirls and demands sarcastic, "Well, what would you suggest, young man?"

"He's got all the earmarks of a reg'lar invited guest, ain't he?" says I. "And unless you're achin' to start somethin', why not let me handle this 'Who the blazes are you?' act?"

He sees the point too, Mr. Robert does. He shrugs his shoulders and grins. "That's so," says he. "All right, Torchy. Full diplomatic powers, and if necessary I shall restrain Ferdie by the collar."

I wa'n't wastin' time on any subtle strategy, though. Walkin' over to Skeet I taps him on the shoulder, and then it's his turn to gawp at my costume.

"Why," he gasps, "how—er—where did you——"

"Oh, I brought myself out last season," says I. "But just a minute, if you don't mind," and I jerks my thumb towards the dressin' room.

"But, you know," he begins, "I—I——"

"Ah, ditch the shifty stuff!" says I. "This is orders from headquarters. Come!"

And he trots right along. Once I gets him behind the draperies I shoots it at him straight. "Who'd you pinch the invite from?" says I.

"See here, now!" he comes back peevish. "You have no call to say that. I had a bid, all right; got it with me. There! What about that?" And he flashes a card on me.

It's one of Marjorie's!

"Huh!" says I. "Met her at Mrs. Astor's, I expect?"

Skeet shuffles his feet and tries to look indignant.

"Come on, give us the plot of the piece," says I, "or I'll call up Sister Maggie and put her on the stand. Where was it, now?"

"If you must know," says Skeet sulky, "it was at Roselle's."

"The tango factory?" says I. "Oh, I'm beginnin' to get the thread. The place where she's been takin' lessons, eh?"

Skeet nods.

"Is this romance, or business, then?" says I.

"Think I'm a fathead?" says he. "I'm gettin' fifteen for this, and I'm earnin' the money too. It's a regular thing. Last night I was Cousin Harry for an old maid from Washington—went to a swell house dance up on Riverside Drive. She came across with twenty for that, and paid for the taxi."

"Well, well!" says I. "Then them long legs of yours has turned out a good asset after all. What you pullin' down, Skeet, on an average?"

"Twenty regular, and a hundred or so on the side," says he, swellin' his chest out. "And, say, I guess I got it some on the rest of the family. You know how they used me,—like dirt, the old lady callin' me a loafer, and Annie so stuck up on livin' in an elevator apartment she wouldn't have me around. Maggie too! Didn't I hand it to her, though? Notice me frost her, eh? But I said I'd show 'em some day. Guess I've delivered the goods. Look at me now, all dolled up every night, and mixin' with the best people! Say, you watch me! Why, I can go out there and pick any queen you want to name. They're crazy about me. I could show you mash notes and photos too. Oh, I'm Winning Willie with the fluffs, I am!"

Well, it was worth listenin' to. He struts around waggin' his silly head, until I can hardly keep from throwin' a chair at him. Course something had to be dealt out. He needed it bad. So I sizes him up rapid and makes the first play that comes into my head.

"You're a wonder, Skeet," says I. "And it's a great game as long as you can get away with it. But whisper!" Here I glances around cautious. "You know I'm a friend of yours."

"Oh, sure," says he careless. "What then?"

"Only this," says I. "Here's once when I'm afraid you're about to pull down trouble."

"How's that?" says he, twistin' his neck uneasy.

"Notice the two gents I was just talkin' with," I goes on, "specially the savage-lookin' one with the framed lamps? Well, that was Hubby. He's got one of these hair-trigger dispositions too."

"Pooh!" says Skeet. But he's listenin' close.

"I'm only tellin' you," says I. "Then the big one with the wide shoulders—that's Brother. Reg'lar brute, he is, and a temper——"

That gets him stary eyed. "You—you don't mean," says he, "that——"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "You know you and the young lady was some conspicuous. There's been talk all round the room. They've both heard, and they're beefin' something awful. Course I ain't sayin' they'll spring any gunplay right in the house; but—why, what's wrong, Skeet?"

Honest, he's gone putty faced and panicky. He begins pawin' around for his overcoat.

"Ain't goin' so soon, are you," says I, "without breakin' a few more hearts?"

"I—I'm goin' to get out of here!" says he, his teeth chattery. He'd grabbed his silk lid and was makin' a dash for the front door when I stopped him.

"Not that way, for the love of soup!" says I. "They'll be layin' for you there. Why not bluff it out and cut up with some of the other queens?"

"I'm not feeling well," says he. "I—I'm going, I tell you!"

"If you insist, then," says I, "perhaps I can sneak you out. Here, this way. Now slide in behind that portiere until I find one of the maids. Oh, here's one now. S-s-s-t! That you, Maggie? Well, smuggle Mr. Keyser out the back way, will you? And if you don't want to witness bloodshed, do it quick!"

I tipped her the wink over his shoulder, and the last glimpse I had of Skeet he was bein' hustled and shoved towards the back way by willin' hands.

By the time I gets back into the ballroom I finds Marjorie right in the midst of a fam'ly court martial. She's makin' a full confession.

"Of course I hired him," she's sayin' to Brother Robert. "Why? Because I've been a wall flower at too many dances, and I'm tired of it. No, I don't know who he is, I'm sure; but he's a perfectly lovely dancer. I wonder where he's disappeared to?"

Which seemed to be my cue to report. "Mr. Keyser presents his compliments," says I, "and begs to be excused for the rest of the evenin' on account of feelin' suddenly indisposed. He says you can send him that fifteen by mail, if you like."

"Well, the idea!" gasps Marjorie.

As for Mr. Robert, he chuckles. Takin' me one side, he asks confidential, "What did you use on our young friend, persuasion, or assault with intent?"

"On a fish-face like that?" says I. "Nope. This was just a simple case of spill."



CHAPTER VII

GETTING A JOLT FROM WESTY

You might call it time out, or suspended hostilities durin' peace negotiations, or anything like that. Anyway, Aunty has softened up to the extent of lettin' me come around once a week without makin' me assume a disguise, or crawl in through the coal chute. Course I'm still under suspicion; but while the ban ain't lifted complete she don't treat me quite so much like a porch climber or a free speech agitator.

"Remember," says she, "Friday evenings only, from half after eight until not later than ten."

"Yes'm," says I, "and it's mighty——"

"Please!" she breaks in. "No grotesquely phrased effusions of gratitude. I am merely indulging Verona in one of her absurd whims. You understand that, I trust?"

"I get your idea," says I, "and even if it don't swell my chest any, I'm——"

"Kindly refrain from using such patois," says Aunty.

"Eh?" says I. "You mean ditch the gabby talk? All right, Ma'am."

Aunty rolls her eyes and sighs hopeless. "How my niece can find entertainment in such——" Here Aunty stops and shrugs her shoulders. "Well," she goes on, "it is a mystery to me."

"Me too," says I; "so for once we're playin' on the same side of the net, ain't we! Say, but she's some girl though!"

Aunty's mouth corners wrinkle into one of them sarcastic smiles that's her specialty, and she remarks careless: "Quite a number of young men seem to have discovered that Verona is rather attractive."

"They'd have to be blind in both eyes and born without ears if they didn't," says I, "believe me!"

Oh, yes, we had a nice confidential little chat, me and Aunty did,—almost chummy, you know,—and as it breaks up and I backs out into the hall, givin' her the polite "Good evenin', Ma'am," I thought I heard a half-smothered snicker behind the draperies. Maybe it was that flossy French maid of theirs. But I floats downtown as gay and chirky as though I'd been promoted to first vice-president of something.

Course I was wise to the fact that Aunty wa'n't arrangin' any duo act with the lights shaded soft. Not her! Even if I had an official ratin' in the Corrugated now, and a few weeks back had shunted her off from a losin' stock deal, she wa'n't tryin' to decoy me into the fam'ly. Hardly! I could guess how she'd set the stage for my weekly call, and if I found myself with anything more than a walk-on part in a mob scene I'd be lucky.

You know she's taken a house for the winter, one of them old-fashioned brownstone fronts up on Madison-ave. that some friends of hers was goin' to close durin' a tour abroad. Nothin' swell, but real comfy and substantial, and as I marches up bold for my first push at the bell button I'm kind of relieved that I don't have to stand in line.

Who should I get a glimpse of, though, as I'm handin' my things to the butler, but the favored candidate, Sappy Westlake? Yep, big as life, with his slick, pale hair, his long legs, and his woodeny face! Looked like his admission card must have been punched for eight P.M., or else he'd been asked for dinner. Anyway, he was right on the ground, thumpin' out a new rag on the piano, and enjoyin' the full glare of the limelight. The only other entry I can discover is a girl.

"My friend Miss Ull," explains Vee.

A good deal of a queen Miss Ull is too, tall and slim and tinted up delicate, but one of these poutin', peevish beauts that can look you over cold and distant and say "Howdy do" in such a bored, tired tone that you feel like apologizin' for the intrusion.

They didn't get wildly enthusiastic over my entrance, Miss Ull and Westy. In fact, almost before the honors are done they turns their backs on me and drifts to the piano once more.

"Do play that 'Try-trimmer-Traeumerei' thing again," urges Miss Ull, and begins to hum it as Westy proceeds to bang it out.

But there's Vee, her wheat-colored hair fluffin' about her seashell ears and her big gray eyes watchin' me sort of quizzin' and impish. "Well, Mr. Private Secretary?" says she.

"When does the rest of the chorus come on?" says I.

"The what?" says Vee.

"The full panel," says I. "Aunty's planned to have the S. R. O. sign out on my evenin's, ain't she?"

At which Vee tosses her head. "How silly!" says she. "No one else is expected that I know of. Why?"

"Oh, she might think we'd be lonesome," says I. "Honest, I was lookin' for a bunch; but if it's only a mixed foursome, that ain't so bad. I got the scheme, though. She counts Westy as better than a crowd. 'Safety First' is her motto. But who's the Peevish Priscilla here, that's so tickled to see me come in she has to turn away to hide her emotion?"

"Doris?" says Vee. "Oh, we got to know her on the steamer coming back from the Mediterranean last winter. Stunning, isn't she?"

"Specially her manners," says I. "Almost paralyzin'."

"Oh, that's just her way," says Vee. "Really, she's very nice when you get to know her. I'm rather sorry for her too. Her home life is—well, not at all congenial. That's one reason why I asked her to visit me for a week or so."

"That's the easiest thing you do, ain't it," says I, "bein' nice to folks that ain't used to it?"

"Thank goodness," says Vee, "someone has discovered my angelic qualities at last! Go on, Torchy, think of some more, can't you?" And she claps her hands enthusiastic.

"Quit your spoofin'," says I, "or I'll ring for Aunty and tell how you've been kiddin' the guest of honor. I might talk easier too, if we could adjourn to the window alcove over there. No rule against that, is there?"

Didn't seem to be. And we'd have had a perfectly good chat if it hadn't been for Doris. Such a restless young female! First she wants to drum something out on the piano herself. Then she must have Vee come show her how it ought to go. Next she wants to practice a new fancy dance, and so on. She keeps Westy trottin' around, and Vee comin' and goin', and things stirred up gen'rally. One minute she's gigglin' hysterical over nothin' at all, and the next she's poutin' sulky.

Anyway, she managed to queer the best part of the evenin', and I'd just settled down with Vee in a corner when the big hall clock starts to chime ten, and in through the draperies marches Aunty. It ain't any accidental droppin' in, either. She glances at me stern and suggestive and nods towards the door. So it was all over!

"Say," I whispers to Vee as I does a draggy exit, "if Doris is to be with us again, would you mind my bringin' a clothesline and ropin' her to the piano?"

Maybe it wa'n't some discouragin' a week later to find the same pair still on the job, with Doris as much of a peace disturber as ever. I got a little more of her history sketched out by Vee that night. Seems that Doris didn't really belong, for all her airs. Her folks had only lived up in the West 70's for four or five years, and before that——

"Well, you know," says Vee, archin' her eyebrows expressive, "on the East Side somewhere."

You see, Father had been comin' strong in business of late,—antiques and house decoratin'. I remember havin' seen the name over the door of his big Fifth-ave. shop,—Leo Ull. You know there's about five hundred per cent, profit in that game when you get it goin', and while Pa Ull might have started small, in an East 14th Street basement, with livin' rooms in the rear, he kept branchin' out,—gettin' to Fourth-ave., and fin'lly to Fifth, jumpin' from a flat to an apartment, and from that to a reg'lar house.

So the two boys went to college, and later on little Doris, with long braids down her back and weeps in her eyes, is sent off to a girls' boardin' school. By the time her turn came too, the annual income was runnin' into six figures. Besides, Doris was the pet. And when Pa and Ma Ull sat down to pick out a young ladies' culture fact'ry for her the process was simple. They discarded all but three of the catalogues, savin' them that was printed on the thickest paper and havin' the most halftone pictures, and then put the tag on the one where the rates was highest. Near Washington, I think it was; anyway, somewhere South,—board and tuition, two thousand dollars and up; everything extra, from lead pencils to lessons in court etiquette; and the young ladies limited to ten new evenin' dresses a term.

Maybe you've seen products of such exclusive establishments? And if you have perhaps you can frame up a faint picture of what Doris was like after four years at Hetherington Hall and a five months' trip abroad chaperoned by the Baroness Parcheezi. No wonder she didn't find home a happy spot after that!

"Her brothers are quite nice, I believe," says Vee. "They're both married, though. Mr. Ull is not so bad, either,—a little crude perhaps; but he has learned to wear a frock coat in the shop and not to talk to lady customers when he has a cigar between his teeth. But Mrs. Ull—well, she hasn't kept up, that's all."

"Still on East 14th Street, eh?" says I.

Vee admits that nearly states the case. "And of course," she goes on, "she doesn't understand Doris. They don't get on at all well. So when Doris told me how lonely and unhappy she was at home and begged me to visit her for a week in return—well, what could I do? I'm going back with her Monday."

"Then," says I, "I see where I cut next Friday off the calendar."

"Unless," suggests Vee, droppin' her long eyelashes coy, "you were not too stupid to think of——"

"Say," I breaks in, "gimme that number again, will you? Suppose I could duck meetin' Westy if I came the first evenin'?"

"If you're at all afraid of him, you shouldn't run the risk," comes back Vee.

"Chance is my middle name," says I. "Only him stickin' around does make a room so crowded. I didn't know but he might miss a night occasionally."

Vee sticks the tip of her tongue out. "Just two during the last ten days, if you want to know," says she.

"Huh!" says I. "Must think he holds a season ticket."

I couldn't make out, either, what it was that Vee seems so amused over; for as near as I can judge she was never very strong for Sappy herself. Maybe it was just a string she was handin' me.

Havin' decided on that, I waits patient until eight-fifteen Monday evenin', and then breezes cheery and hopeful through the Ulls' front door and into the front room. No Westy in sight, or anybody else. The maid says the young ladies are in somewhere, and she'll tell 'em I've come.

So I wanders about amongst the furniture, that's set around almost as thick as in a showroom,—heavy, fancy pieces, most likely ones that had been sent up from the store as stickers. The samples of art on the walls struck me as a bit gaudy too, and I was tryin' to guess how it would seem if you had to live in that sort of clutter continual, when out through the slidin' doors from the lib'ry appears Sappy the Constant.

"The poor prune!" thinks I. "I wonder if I've got time to work up some scheme of puttin' the skids under him?"

But instead of givin' me the haughty stare as usual he rushes towards me smilin' and excited. "Oh, I say!" he breaks out. "Torchy, isn't it? Well, I—I've got a big piece of news."

"I know," says I. "Someone's told you that the Panama Canal's full of water."

"No, no!" says he. "It—it's about me. Just happened, you know. And really I must tell someone."

I had a choky sensation in my throat about then, and my breath came a little short; but I managed to get out husky, "Well, toss it over."

Westy beams grateful. "Isn't it wonderful?" says he. "I—I've got her!"

"Eh?" I gasps, grippin' a chair back.

"She just told me," says he, "in there. She's—she's wearing my ring now."

Got me right under the belt buckle, that did. I felt wabbly and dizzy for a second, and I expect I gawps at him open faced. Then I takes a brace. Had to. I don't know how well I did it either, or how convincin' it sounded, but I found myself shakin' him by the mitt and sayin': "Congratulations, Westlake. You—you've got a girl worth gettin', believe me!"

"Thanks awfully, old man," says he, still pumpin' my arm up and down. "I can hardly realize it myself. Awfully bad case I had, you know. And now, while I have the courage, I suppose I'd best see her mother."

"Wha-a-at?" says I, starin' at him.

"I know," says he, "it isn't being done much nowadays, but somehow I think I ought. You know I haven't even met Mrs. Ull as yet."

I hope he was so fussed he didn't notice that sigh of relief I let out; for I'll admit it was some able-bodied affair,—a good deal like shuttin' off the air in a brake connection, or rippin' a sheet. Anyway, I made up for it the next minute.

"You and Doris, eh?" says I, poundin' him on the back hearty. "Ain't you the foxy pair, though? Well, well! Here, let's have another shake on that. But why not see Father and tell him about it? Know the old gent, don't you?"

"Ye-e-es," says Westy, flushin' a bit. "But he—well, he's her father, of course. She can't help that. And it makes no difference at all to me if he isn't really refined—not a bit. But—but I'd rather not talk to him just now. I—I prefer to see Mrs. Ull."

I can't say just what I felt so friendly and fraternal to him about then; but I did. "Westy," says I, "take my advice about this hunch of yours to see Mother. Don't!"

"But really," he insists, "I must tell one or the other, don't you see. And unless I do it right away I know I never can at all. Besides I've made up my mind that Mrs. Ull ought to be the first to know. I—I'm going to ring for the maid and ask to see her."

"Good nerve!" says I, slappin' him on the shoulder. "In that case I'll just slip into the back room there and shut the door."

"Oh, I say!" says he, glancin' around panicky. "I—I wish you'd stay. I—I don't fancy facing her alone. Please stay!"

"It ain't reg'lar," says I.

"I don't care," says Westy, pleadin'. "You could sort of introduce me, you know, and—and help me out if I got stuck. You would, wouldn't you?"

And it was amazin' how diff'rent I felt towards Westy from five minutes before. His best friend couldn't have looked on him fonder, or promised to stand by him closer. I calls the maid myself, discovers that Mrs. Ull is in the upstairs sittin' room, and sends the message that Mr. Westlake would like to see her right off about something important.

"But you got to buck up, my boy," says I; "for from all the dope I've had you've got a jolt comin' to you."

That wa'n't any idle rumor, either. He'd hardly begun pacin' restless in and out among the chairs and tables before we hears a heavy pad-pad on the stairs, and the next thing we know the lady is standin' in the door.

Not such an awful stout old party as I'd looked for, nor she didn't have such a bad face; but with the funny way she has her hair bobbed up, and the weird way her dress fits her, like it had been cut out left-handed in a blind asylum—well, she's a mess, that's all. It's an expensive lookin' outfit too, and the jew'lry display around her lumpy neck and on her pudgy fingers was enough to make you blink; but somehow it all looked out of place.

For a second she stands there fingerin' her rings fidgety, and then remarks unexpected: "It's about Doris, ain't it? Well, young feller, what is it you got on your mind?"

And all of a sudden I tumbles to the fact that she's lookin' straight at me. Then it was my turn to go panicky. "Excuse me, Ma'am," says I hasty, "but that's the guilty party, the one over by the fireplace. Mr. Westlake, Ma'am."

"Oh!" says she. "That one, eh? Well, let's have it!" and with that she paddles over to a high-backed, carved mahogany chair and settles herself sort of grim and defiant. I almost had to push Westy to the front too.

"I expect you've talked this all over with her father, eh?" she goes on. "I'm always the last to get wise to anything that goes on in this house, specially if it's about Doris. Come, let's have it!"

"But I haven't seen Mr. Ull at all," protests Westy. "It—it's just happened. And I thought you ought to know first. I want to ask you, Mrs. Ull, if I may marry Doris?"

We wa'n't lookin' for what come next, either of us; her big red face had such a hard, sullen look on it, like she knew we was sizin' her up and meant to show us she didn't give a hoot what we thought. But as Westy finishes and bows real respectful, holdin' out his hand friendly, the change come. The hard lines around her mouth softens, the narrowed eyes widen and light up, and her stiff under jaw gets trembly. A tear or so trickles foolish down the side of her nose; but she don't pay any attention. She's just starin' at Westy.

"You—you wanted me to know first, did you?" says she, with a break in her shrill, cackly voice. "Me?"

"I thought it only right," says Westy. "You're Doris's mother, you know, and——"

"Good boy!" says she, reachin' out after one of his hands and pattin' it. "I'm glad you did too. Doris, she's got too fine for her old mother. That ain't so much her fault as it is mine, I expect. I'm kind of rough, and a good deal behind the times. I ain't kept up, not even the way Leo has. But then, I ain't had the chance. I've been at home, lookin' after the boys and—and Doris. I saw she was gettin' spoiled; but I didn't have the heart to bring her home and stop it. She's young, though. She'll get over it. You'll help her. Oh, I know about you. Quite a young swell, you are; but I guess you're all right. And I'm glad for Doris. Maybe too, she'll find out some day that her rough old mother, who got left so far behind, thinks a lot of her still. You—you'll tell her as much some time perhaps. Won't you?"

Say, take it from me, I was so misty in the eyes about then, and so choky under my collar, that I couldn't have done it myself. But Westy did. There's a heap more to him than shows on the outside.

"Mrs. Ull," says he, "I shall tell Doris all of that, and much more. And I'm sure that both of us are going to be very fond of you. And if you don't mind, I'm going to begin now to call you Mother."

Yes, I was gettin' a little uneasy at that stage. I hadn't counted on bein' let in for quite such a close fam'ly scene. And when the two girls showed up with their arms locked about each other, and Vee leads Doris up to Mother Ull, and they goes to a three-cornered clinch, sobbin' on one another's shoulder—well, I faded.

On the way home I was struck by a sudden thought that trickled all the way down my spine like a splinter of ice. "If I ever had the luck to get that far," thinks I, "would I have to go through any such an act with Aunty? Hel-lup, Hubert! Hel-lup!"



CHAPTER VIII

SOME GUESSES ON RUBY

Well, I'm shocked at Ruby, that's all. Also I'm beginnin' to suspicion I ain't such a human-nature dope artist as I thought, for I've made at least three fruity forecasts on Ruby, and the returns are still comin' in.

My first frame-up was natural enough. When this goose-necked young female with the far-away look in her eyes appeared as No. 7 in our batt'ry of lady typists, and I heard Mr. Robert havin' a seance tryin' to dictate some of the mornin' correspondence to her, I swung round with a grin on my face and took a second look. She was fussed and scared.

No wonder; for Mr. Robert has a shorthand system of his own that he uses in dictatin' letters. He'll reel off the name and address all right, and then simply sketch in what he wants said, without takin' pains to throw in such details as "Replying to yours of even date," or "We are in receipt of yours of the 20th inst." And the connectin' links he always leaves to the stenog.

Course that don't take much bean after they get used to his ways; but this fairy in the puckered black velvet waist and the white linen cuffs hadn't been on the Corrugated staff more 'n three days, and this was her first tryout on private officework. She'd been told to read over the last letter fired at her, and she was doin' it like this:

BAILY, BANKS & BAKER, Something-or-other Chestnut, Philadelphia. Look up the number, will you? Gentlemen—and so on. Ah—er—what's that note of theirs? Oh, yes! Shipments of ore will be resumed—

Which was where Mr. Robert stops her. "Pardon me," says he, "but before we go any further just how much of that rubbish do you mean to transcribe?"

"Why," says Ruby, starin' at him vacant, "I—I took down just what you said."

"Mm-m-m!" says he sarcastic. "My error. And—er—that will be all." Then, when she's gone, he growls savage: "Delightful, eh? You noticed her, didn't you, Torchy?"

"The mouth breather?" says I. "Sure! That's Ruby. Nobody home, and the front door left open. One of Piddie's finds, I expect."

"Ring for him, will you?" says Mr. Robert.

Poor Piddie! He was almost as fussed as Ruby had been. He admits takin' her on, but insists that she brought a good letter from some Western mill concern and was a wonder at takin' figures.

"Keep her on them and out of here, then," says Mr. Robert. "And if you love peace, Mr. Piddie, avoid sending her to the governor."

Which was a good hunch too. What Old Hickory would have remarked if them letters had got to him it ain't best to imagine. Besides, that stare of Ruby's would have got on his nerves from the start; for it's the weirdest, emptiest, why-am-I-here look I ever saw outside a nut fact'ry. Kind of a hauntin' look too. I couldn't help watchin' for it every time I passes through the front office, just to see if it had changed any. And it didn't—always the same!

Then here one day when I has to cook up some tabulated stuff for the Semiannual me and Ruby had a three-hour session together, me readin' off long strings of numbers, and her thumpin' 'em out on the keys. We got along fine too, and when I says as much at the finish she jars me almost speechless by shootin' over a shy, grateful look and smilin' coy.

From then on it was almost a case of friendly relations between me and Ruby, conducted on the basis of about two smiles a day. Poor thing! I expect them was about the only friendly motions she went through durin' business hours; for she didn't seem to mix at all with the other lady typists, and as for the young sports around the shop—well, to them Ruby was a standin' joke.

And you could hardly blame 'em. Them back-number costumes of hers looked odd enough mixed in with all the harem effects and wired-neck ruffs that the others wore down to work. But when it come to doin' her hair Ruby was in a class by herself. No spit curls or French rolls for her! She sticks to the plain double braid, wound around her head smooth and slick, like the stuff they wrap Chianti bottles in, and with her long soup-viaduct it gives her sort of a top-heavy look. Sort of dull, ginger-colored hair it is too. Besides that she's a tall, shingle-chested female, well along in the twenties, I should judge, and with all the earmarks of bein' an old maid.

So shock No. 2 is handed me when I discovers how the high-shouldered young husk with the wide-set blue eyes, that I'd seen hangin' round the Arcade on and off, was really waitin' for Ruby. Uh-huh! I stood and watched 'em sidle up to each other and go driftin' out into Broadway hand in hand. A swell pair they'd make for a Rube vaudeville act! Honest, with a few make-up touches, they could have walked right on and had the gallery with 'em!

Believe me, I couldn't miss a chance to josh Ruby some on that. I shoves it at her next day when I comes back early from lunch and finds her brushin' her sandwich crumbs into the waste basket.

"Now don't spring any musty first-cousin gag on me," says I; "for it don't go with the fond, palm-pressin' act. Steady comp'ny, ain't he?"

Which was where you'd expect her to turn pink in the ears and let loose a giggle. But not Ruby. She's a solemn, serious-minded party, Ruby is. "Do you mean Mr. Lindholm?" says she.

"Heavings!" says I. "Do you have relays of 'em? I'm referrin' to the stocky-built young Romeo that picked you up at the door last night."

"Oh, yes," says she placid, "Nelson Lindholm. We had Sanskrit together."

"Eh?" says I. "Sans-which? What kind of a disease is that?"

"It's a language," explains Ruby. "We were in the same class. I thought it might help me in my foreign mission work. I'm sure I don't know why Nelson took it, though. He was studying electrical engineering."

"Maybe it was catchin', at that," says I. "Where was all this?"

"At the Co-ed," says Ruby. "But then I'd known Nelson before. He's from Naukeesha too."

"Come again," says I. "From what?"

"Naukeesha," repeats Ruby, just as if it was some common name like Patchogue or Hoboken.

"Is that an island somewhere," says I, "or just a mixed drink?"

"Why," says she, "it's a town; in Wisconsin, you know."

"Think of that!" says I. "How they do mess up the map! What's it like, this Naukeesha?"

And for the first time Ruby shows some traces of life. "It's nice," says she, "real nice. Not at all like New York."

"Ah come, not so rough!" says I. "What you got special against our burg here?"

Ruby lapses back into her vacant stare and sort of shivers. "It's so big and—and whirly!" says she. "I don't like things to be whirly. Then the people are so strange, and their faces so hard. If—if I should fall down in one of those crowds, I'm sure they would walk right over me, trample on me, without caring."

"Pooh!" says I. "You'll work up a rush-hour nerve in a month or so. Of course, havin' always lived in a place like Naukeesha——"

"But I haven't," corrects Ruby. "I was born in Kansas."

"As bad as that!" says I. "And your folks moved up there later, eh?"

"No," says she. "They—they—I lost them there. A cyclone, you know."

"You don't mean," says I, "that—that——"

"Yes," says she, "Mother, Father, and my two brothers. We were all together when it struck; that is, I was just coming in from the kitchen. I'd been shutting the windows. I saw them all go—whirled off, just like that. The chimney fell, big beams came down, then it was all smoky and dark. I must have been blown through a window. My face was cut a little. I never knew. Neighbors found me in a field by a stump. They found the others too—laid them side by side in the wagon shed. Nothing else was left standing. It's dreadful, being in a cyclone—the roar, you know, and things coming at you in the dark, and that feeling of being lifted and whirled. I was only twelve; but I—I can't forget. And when I'm in big, noisy places it all comes back. I suppose I'm silly."

Was she? Say, what's your guess about that? And, take it from me, I didn't wonder any more at that stary look of hers. She'd seen 'em all go—four of 'em. Good-night! I talked easy and soothin' to Ruby after that.

"Then I went up to live with Uncle Edward at Naukeesha," she trails along. "He's a minister there. It was he who suggested my going into foreign mission work. I had to do something, you know, and I'd always been such a good scholar. I love books. So I studied hard, and was sent to the Co-ed. But the languages took so much time. Then I had to skip several terms and work to help pay my expenses. I worked during vacations too, at anything. Now I'm waiting for a field. They send you out when there's a vacancy."

"How about Nelson?" says I. "He's goin' to be a missionary too?"

"He doesn't want me to go," says Ruby, shakin' her head. "That is why he came on. He had charge of the electric light plant too, a good place. And here he gets only odd jobs. I tell him he's silly to stay. I can't see why he does."

"Asked him, have you?" says I.

"Why, no," says Ruby.

"Shoot it at him to-night," says I.

But she shakes her head, opens her notebook, and feeds in a copyin' sheet as the clock points to 1. I looks up just in time to catch a couple of them cheap bondroom sports nudgin' each other as they passes by. Thought I'd been joshin' the Standin' Joke, I expect. Well, that's the way I started in, I'll admit.

It's only a day or so later I has the luck to run across Oakley Mills. Something had come up that needed to be passed on by Mr. Robert, and as he was still out lunchin' I scouts over to his club, and finds him stowed away at a corner table with this chatty playwright party.

He's quite a swell, Oakley is, you know; and I guess with one Broadway hit in its second year, and a lot of road comp'nies out, he can afford to flit around under the white lights. Him and Mr. Robert has always been more or less chummy, and every now and then they get together like this for a talkfest. As Mr. Mills seems to be right in the middle of something as I drifts in, Mr. Robert waves me to a chair and signals him to keep on, which he does.

"It's a curious mess, that's all," says Oakley, spreadin' out his manicured fingers and shruggin' his shoulders under his Donegal Norfolk. "I'm not sure if the new piece will ever go on."

"Another procrastinating producer?" asks Mr. Robert careless.

"No, a finicky author this time," says Oakley. "You see, there is one part, a character part, which I'm insisting must be cast right. It seemed easy at first. But these women of our American stage! No training, no facility, no understanding! Not one of them can fill it, and we've tried nearly a dozen. If I could only find the original!"

"Eh?" says Mr. Robert, who's been payin' more attention to manipulatin' the soda siphon than to Oakley's beefin'. "What original?"

"The dumbest, woodenest, most conscientious young female person it has ever been my lot to meet," goes on Mr. Mills. "Talk about your rare types! You should have known Faithful Fannie (my name for her, you know). It was out in the Middle West last summer. I had two or three weeks' work to do on the new piece, revising it to fit Amy Dean. All stars of that magnitude demand it, you understand.

"Well, I should have stayed right here until it was done, but some Chicago friends wanted me to go with them up into the lake region, promised me an ideal place to work in—all that. So I went. I might have had better sense. You know these bungalow colonies in the woods—where they live in fourteen-room log cabins, fitted with electric lights and English butlers? Bah! It was bridge and tennis and dancing day and night, with a new mob every week-end. Work? As well try it in the middle of the Newport Casino.

"So I hunted up a little third-rate summer hotel a mile or so off, where the guests were few and the food wretched, and camped down with my mangled script and my typewriter. There I met Fannie the Unforgetful. She was the waitress I happened to draw out of a job lot. I suppose it was her debut at that sort of thing. For the sake of hungry humanity I hope it was. What she did not know about serving was simply amazing; but her capacity for absorbing suggestions and obeying orders was profound. 'Could I have a warm plate?' I asked at the first meal. 'Oh, certainly, Sir,' says Fannie, and from then on every dish she brought me was piping hot, even to the cold-meat platter and the ice cream saucer. It was that way with every wish I was rash enough to express. Fannie never forgot, and she kept to the letter of the law.

"Also she would stand patiently and watch me eat. That is, she would fix her eyes on me intently, never moving, and keep them there for a quarter of an hour at a time. A little embarrassing, you know, to be so constantly observed. She had such big, stary eyes too, absolutely without any expression in them. To break the spell I would order things I didn't want, just to get her out of the way for a moment or so while I snatched a few unwatched bites. You know how it is? There's green corn. Now I like to tackle that with both hands; but I don't care to be closely inspected while I'm at it. I used to fancy that her gaze was somewhat critical. 'Good heavens, Girl!' I said one day. 'Can't you look somewhere else—at the ceiling, or out of the window?' She chose the ceiling. It was a bit weird to have her stationed opposite me, her eyes rolled heavenward. Uncanny! It attracted the attention of the other guests. But it was something of a relief. I could watch her then.

"There was something fascinating about Faithful Fannie, though, as there is about all unusually plain persons. Not that she was positively homely. Her features were regular enough, I suppose. But she was such a tall, slim, colorless, neutral creature! And awkward! You've seen a young turkey, all legs and neck, with its silly head bobbing above the tall grass? Well, something like that. And as I never read at my meals I had nothing else to do but study that sallow, unmoving face of hers with its steady, emotionless, upward gaze. Was she thinking? And what about! Who was she? Where had she come from?

"A haunting face, Fannie's was; at least, for me. It became almost an obsession. I could see it as I sat down to my work. And the first thing I knew I was writing Fannie into my play. There was a maid's part in it,—the conventional, table-dusting, note-carrying, tea-serving maid, with not half a dozen words to speak. But before I knew it this insignificant part had become so elaborated, I had sketched in Fannie's personality so vividly, that the whole action and theme of the piece were revolving about her—hinged on her. I couldn't seem to stop, either. I wrote on and on and—well, by Jove! it ended in my turning out something entirely different from that which I had begun. The original skeleton is still there, the characters are the same; but the values have exchanged places. This is a Fannie play through and through. And it's good, the biggest thing I've done; but——" Once more Oakley shrugs his shoulders and ends with a deep sigh.

"Rubbish!" says Mr. Robert. "You and your artistic temperament! What's the real trouble, anyway?"

"As I've tried to make clear to your limited and wholly commercialized intelligence," comes back Mr. Mills, "I have created a character which is too deep and too subtle for any available American actress to handle. If I could only find the original now, with her tractable genius for doing exactly what she was told——"

"Why not send out for her, then?" asks Mr. Robert.

"As though I hadn't!" says Oakley. "Two weeks ago I located the hotel manager in Florida and wired him a full description of the girl. All I got from him was that he'd heard she was somewhere in New York."

"How simple!" says Mr. Robert. "Here is my young friend Torchy, with wits even more brilliant than his hair. Ask him to find Fannie for you."

"A girl whose name I don't even know!" protests Oakley. "How in blazes could anyone trace a——"

"I'll bet you the dinners," cuts in Mr. Robert, "that Torchy can do it."

"Taken," says Mr. Mills, and turns to me brisk. "Now, young man, what further details would you like?"

"Don't happen to have a lock of her hair with you?" says I, grinnin'.

"Alas, no!" says he. "She favored me with no such mark of her esteem."

"Was it kind of ginger-colored," says I, "and done in a braid round her head?"

"Why—er—I believe it was," says he.

"And didn't she have sort of droopy shoulders," I goes on, "and a trick of starin' vague, with her mouth part way open?"

"Yes, yes!" says he eager. "But—but whom are you describing?"

"Ruby Everschott," says I. "Come down to the Corrugated and take a look."

Course it seemed like a 100 to 1 chance, but when I got the Wisconsin part of his yarn, and tacked it onto the rest, it didn't seem likely one State could produce two such specimens. Inside of fifteen minutes the three of us was strollin' casual through the front offices.

"Glance down the line of lady typists," I whispers to Oakley.

"By George!" says he gaspy. "The one at the far end?"

"You win," says I.

"And you also, my young wizard," says Oakley.

"I'll have her sent into my private office," suggests Mr. Robert.

And once more I was lookin' for some startled motions from Ruby when she discovers Mr. Mills. But in she comes, as woodeny and stiff as ever, goes to her little table, and spreads out her notebook, without glancin' at any of us.

"Pardon me, Miss Everschott," says Mr. Robert, "but—er—my friend Mills here fancies that he—er—ah—oh, hang it all! you say it, Oakley."

At which Mr. Mills steps up smilin'. I should judge he was a fairly smooth, high-polished gent as a rule; but after Ruby has turned that stupid, stary look on him, without battin' an eyelash or liftin' an eyebrow, the smile fades out. She don't say a word or make a move: just continues to stare. As for Oakley, he shifts uneasy on his feet and flushes up under the eyes.

"Well?" says he. "I trust you remember me?"

Ruby shakes her head slow. "No, Sir," says she.

"Eh?" says Oakley. "Weren't you a waitress at the Lakeside Hotel last summer?"

"Certainly, Sir," says Ruby.

"And didn't you bring me my meals three times a day for four mortal weeks?" he insists.

"Did I?" says Ruby, starin' stupider than ever.

"Great Scott, young woman!" breaks out Oakley. "Didn't you look at me long enough and steadily enough to remember? Don't you recall I was disagreeable enough to ask you not to watch me eat?"

"Oh!" says Ruby, a flicker of almost human intelligence in her big eyes. "The one who wanted hot plates!"

"At last," says Oakley, "I am properly identified. Yes, I am the hot-plate person."

"You had tea for breakfast too, didn't you?" asks Ruby.

"Always," says he. "An eccentricity of mine."

"And you put salt on your muskmelon, and wanted your eggs opened, and didn't like tomato soup," adds Ruby, like she was repeatin' a lesson.

"Guilty on all three counts," says Mr. Mills.

"I tried to remember," says Ruby, sort of meek.

"Tried!" gasps Oakley. "Why, you made an art of it. You never so much as—— But tell me, was it those foolish little whims of mine you were thinking so hard about while you stood there gazing so intently at me?"

Ruby nods; a shy, bashful little nod.

Mr. Mills makes a low bow. "A thousand pardons, my dear young lady!" says he. "I stand convicted of utter selfishness. But perhaps I can atone."

And with that he proceeds to put his proposition up to her. He tells her about the play, the trouble he's had tryin' to fit one special part, and how he's sure she could do it to a T. He asks her to give it a try.